Sunshine, Lollipops & Klainebows
by RainySunnyEnding
Summary: For the Klaine kiss anniversary week 2014. Every day, I'll be uploading a new drabble based on a colour of the rainbow.
1. Red

I turn the box over in my hand. It feels like the heaviest thing in the world. But it is something so small...

I love him. I love him so much and I know that I want to do this. The only questions remaining are when and how. The who is obvious and the why I have already stated. Blaine Devon Anderson. Because I love him.

The box is red, but the ring inside is platinum. I'm almost embarrassed that I had to call Cooper to confirm that Blaine would like the ring. Surely, by this time, I would have known him enough to pick out a ring that he'd love. But I am glad that I called him. His obvious jubilation at my imminent popping the question has settled my nerves quite a bit.

The room seems warm, and I am sitting on our bed. I can feel it dip at my weight upon it. But he headed out to buy groceries and I am sitting on our bed alone. Alone with my thoughts. And again the how keeps tapping me on the shoulder.

Perhaps I could do it on our next visit back to Ohio. I'll take him to Pavarotti's grave and hold his hand and, weather-permitting, fall on my knee with an impressive speech, presenting the ring, opening its box when his eyes begin to shine.

The window is open, and through it I hear the general city bustle which is always present outside the apartment. When we first came here, I couldn't sleep because of it. Now, I can't sleep without it.

I could organise a picnic in Central Park, and hire a band and we could watch them as they unfurl a banner which has my proposal written upon it. And then I'd take out the box and it'd just be the two of us. Everything and everyone else would melt away into nothingness. Only that wouldn't be us. It's too generic. It isn't special enough.

I turn the box again. One, two three. I can curl my fingers around it and it can't quite fit in the palm of my hand. It's like it wants to be revealed, like it can't stand not being looked at. It isn't a shy little thing.

Maybe I need to take him to the Empire State Building. We always said it'd be one of the first places we'd visit in New York, and yet we still haven't gone. We would climb to the observation deck and look out upon the city that changed us. We would murmur thoughts to each other as I plucked up enough courage, and then I'd fall on one knee, tourists-permitting, and ask him to be my husband.

I stand and, after looking at the box one final time, return it to my drawer. I leave it in that pink sock which I never wear because I lost the other one of the half. I have plenty of time to think of the how. For now, the who is on his way back from the store and I want to have a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him when he walks through the door.


	2. Orange

"How do you feel about bright colours?"

Blaine clasped his hands tightly. He had a habit of touching his nose when he was nervous, and he didn't want to do anything embarrassing now. "What sort of bright?"

Blaine had been living in his apartment for nearly a year now. It was plain when he'd moved in, but he'd promised himself he'd make it special and maybe do some painting. That hadn't happened, and so the other week, when he'd seen a small advert for a jobbing interior designer whilst flicking through the newspaper, he'd made himself write the number down and book a consultation. A week later, here he was, standing in his living room with one of the most beautiful men he'd ever seen.

"Well, you have a great couch, so we'll definitely incorporate that. Maybe a turquoise blue?" The man gasped. "Or orange! Orange would be perfect in this room! You could change your cushions, and these curtains would have to go. Oh, I think this room could take an accent wall..."

Blaine watched as the man walked about, spotting existing items from Blaine's assorted paraphernalia that were giving him more inspiration about light fittings and rugs for the wooden floor. Blaine didn't understand a word of it. But he loved watching. This man had swanned so easily into his house, and Blaine was having a hard time trying not to imagine him there on a more permanent basis. In his mind's eye, he saw him walking through the room from the kitchen door with two mugs of cocoa. He'd hand one to Blaine and take the other for himself, then press play on the movie they'd paused and settle down on the sofa, snuggling and-

"So is that okay, then?And I can come over next week with some paint samples for you to look at?"

Blaine hadn't heard a word, but he found it very hard to say no to this man. "Perfect. Thank you so much, Kurt."

Kurt smiled as he returned his sketchbook to his satchel, dropping his pencil in after it. "It's my pleasure. I'll see you next Tuesday."

* * *

"So which ones do you like?"

Blaine bit his lip, staring at the wall which had previously had the couch against it, but they'd moved that away to try the samples. Now, it had seven splodges of orange against the white that had been there previously. And honestly? Blaine could barely tell the difference.

"Um, which one would you choose? Being the designer and all."

Kurt smiled. He returned his gaze to the wall and picked up then pencil he'd used to write the names of each colour underneath the paint. He put a cross next to the name 'Peach Sorbet'. "It's very pale, this one. I don't think it'll be much different from what you have right now. And this one," he put a second cross next to 'Tangerine Melt', "is too pink."

Blaine looked at the colours, really looked. He still couldn't see the difference. "Yes. Yes, I see what you mean."

"This is a nice one," he pointed to 'Mango Madness'. "It's very orange, and would make a nice focal point. As would 'Island Orange'."

"I like those too," Blaine agreed. "And I think that 'Rumba Orange' and 'Traffic Orange' are too..."

"Red," Kurt decided, sticking crosses next to them like he had with the first two. "And I'd had hopes for 'Atomic Tangerine', but now that I see it in here, it's just too yellow." He crossed that, too. "It just goes to show that samples really are important."

Blaine chewed at his lip some more. "So... 'Mango Madness'?"

Kurt shook his head. "No, I think we need larger sample sizes. I'll paint larger squares of these two. And then you can decide."

Blaine nodded slowly. He was completely out of his depth, and not just with picking out the paint. "I'm really sorry," he said, "but my manager has been going on at me to finish this song I started, so-"

Kurt waved him away. "Sure, of course. Go, I'll call you when I've done."

Blaine walked to his music room. Its door was attached to the living room and he left the door open so that he'd hear when Kurt was ready. He sat down at the piano. The man had got into his head and he wouldn't get out. Blaine shook his thoughts. No, he needed to concentrate.

He set his fingers over the keys and started to work on what he'd started the day before. But however he played it, he came to a pause a couple of bars in. He'd work through the same eight notes, and then whatever he tried for the ninth never worked. He hit a chord in frustration.

He sat in silence, trying to collect his thoughts. In the room next door, he could hear Kurt moving about with a paintbrush, splattering colour onto his bare walls. Outside, he could hear nothing save birds twittering animatedly. In the corner of the room sat the guitar that his father had bought him two months before his fatal car crash. Blaine flexed his fingers and returned his gaze to the keys. Softly, he began playing.

It wasn't his own melody, but it was a start. His fingers moved easily, not once locking up or hitting the wrong note. His feet moved the pedals with just the right amount of pressure and he could feel that same excitement build in him just as it had done the first time he had heard it, live, when he was ten years old. It was this song that had made him want to become a composer.

He reached the end, his fingers lingering on the keys, when he heard applause coming from behind him. He turned around, startled, to see Kurt leaning against the doorframe. His loose denim jeans were splattered with flecks of orange. They were very different from the skinny pair he'd worn the other day.

"You liked it?" he asked, nervous again.

"Nuvole Bianche. It's been one of my favourite songs for years." Kurt didn't move. He just remained, leaning against the doorframe with a look in his eyes that Blaine couldn't name.

Blaine coughed and straightened on his piano stool. "Shall I, um, colours, then?"

Kurt nodded. "They are very similar. But come and have a look." Finally, he moved off, back into the living room. Blaine followed him.

He looked at the wall, at the two shades of orange. He frowned, looking from one to the other. They were identical, yet he could see the difference. "Island Orange," he decided. "Mango Madness is too... orange."


	3. Yellow

"Do you think we have enough?"

Kurt joined Blaine on the stool he was stood on to see over the work surface. He frowned at the lemons. He rolled one over. "I hope so." He hopped down. "Mommy?" he called.

Elizabeth entered the kitchen. "Are you okay, boys?" she asked.

Kurt pointed to where Blaine was standing next to the lemons. "Is this all we have?"

Elizabeth laughed. "There's enough for a small army there, darling. Come on, do you want any help?"

Kurt shook his head and attempted to push his mother out of the room. "No, Mommy. We've got this." He turned around to see his best friend licking his finger. It was covered in sugar. "No! That's for the lemonade!" he cried.

Blaine looked sheepish, but he finished licking his finger. "It tastes good," he argued.

Kurt tutted, his hands on his hips. "We might not have enough now." He sighed. "Well, we've got to try." He stood on his tiptoes to take the measuring jug from the worktop, then took it over to the sink. He frowned. "Mommy?"

Elizabeth reappeared and saw her son. She smiled fondly. "One cup?" she asked, taking the jug from him. She filled it with water, then handed it back to him. Carefully, he walked it back to the counter that Blaine was standing next to. "You've got it from here, then?"

Kurt nodded and hopped back up on the stool next to Blaine. "Oh, could you pass me a spoon from the drawer before you go?"

Elizabeth did as he asked, dropping a kiss on the top of his head before leaving the kitchen again.

"What needs to go in first?" Blaine asked.

"The lemons," Kurt said decisively. "They've already been chopped, so we just have to put them in."

"Can I do it? Only I've never tried it before."

"Okay, agreed Kurt democratically. "If I can do the sugar. I don't want you eating it all before it can go in."

Blaine grinned sheepishly, then reached for handfuls of the lemons, dropping them into the food processor. He licked his hands when he was done, then pulled a face.

Kurt laughed. "That serves you right." He used the spoon and put a generous amount of sugar in. He dipped the spoon back in to the packet again, and looked at his best friend. He frowned, then sighed and offered him the spoon.

Blaine squealed with happiness. "Thank you!" he said, through a mouthful of crunchy sugar.

Kurt just huffed, trying to keep the smile from his face, as he added the water slowly. Then he put the lid on. "Do you want to press the button?"

With his mouth full of crystallized happiness, Blaine poked the button, then wrapped his arms around his best friend in a close hug.

* * *

"We've made loads!" Blaine exclaimed, shaking the coin jar. "Millions," he exaggerated.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Hardly millions, Blaine."

"Gazilions," Blaine corrected.

Kurt couldn't help himself. He giggled.

"Hi, could I have a lemonade please?"

Kurt looked at the man with blond hair. He looked like he was a big, scary teenager. But Kurt wasn't about to be scared. "Certainly." He poured a cup. "That'll be twenty-five cents, please."

The man handed his money over, and Kurt passed him the cup. "I used to do this loads as a kid," the man said. "Pick a sunny afternoon and a friend and set a stall up." He raised his glass. "Thanks."

Blaine smirked as the man walked away. "A gazillion and twenty-five cents," he said as he dropped the new coins into the jar.

"How are you boys doing?" Burt appeared behind Kurt and looked at the nearly empty jug of lemonade. "Is there enough for me to have a cup?"

Kurt poured a cup for his father. "Twenty-five cents, please."

Burt laughed. "I don't pay. I'm your Daddy."

Kurt shook his head stubbornly. "Pay or you can't have lemonade."

Burt sighed as he dug a hand into his jeans. "Is he always like this?" he asked Blaine, joking.

Blaine nodded sincerely. "He's very serious about things. It's one of the many things I love about him."

Burt froze as he dropped his money into Kurt's palm. He looked between the neighbours, the best friends. Slowly, he began to smile. "Me too, son. Me too."


	4. Green

Kurt regarded Blaine suspiciously. "What do you have planned?"

Blaine just smirked, pulled his satchel over his shoulder and held out his hand. "Are you coming?"

* * *

"Oh, a picnic. How very original."

Blaine gasped and held his hand to his chest. "Sir! You mock me!"

Kurt snorted. "Okay, so it's sweet. Hey, please tell me you brought some chicken and bacon?"

"Better," Blaine announced, opening the box he'd put the sandwiches in. "Cucumber."

Kurt looked in the box, then at his silly boyfriend. He burst out laughing. "Cucumber? You seriously bought cucumber sandwiches?"

"Made," Blaine corrected, but it only made Kurt laugh harder. "What? I thought you liked British things?"

Kurt giggled some more, hiding his mouth behind a hand. "Oh, Blaine. It's wonderful."

"So, you do like it?" Blaine checked.

Kurt nodded. "I was wrong. This is an awesome date."

The word made Blaine's heart beat a little faster. A date. This was a date. Their first date, to be precise. The sun was out - it was the first warm day of summer - and the grass was bright and green. Blaine had chosen a popular park that he knew they'd be able to find a secluded area in, and he'd even laid out a rug for Kurt to sit on. He'd spent all morning making the sandwiches and now here he was. He was on a date with Kurt.

That's when he heard it.

Blaine sat up a little straighter, his eyes turning wide with excitement. He moved his head around, trying to see where the sound was coming from. Kurt saw him, and frowned. "Is everything okay?"

Blaine saw it, and he sprang to his feet. "Everything's brilliant. Wait here." Then he ran off, leaving Kurt sitting on the grass by himself eating a cucumber sandwich. Kurt began to feel self-conscious. This was their first date, and Blaine had just run off. Was he really that awful? No, he told himself, nothing was wrong. Maybe Blaine had just remembered that he had to do something. He took one final bite of his cucumber sandwich, and Blaine reappeared. He was carrying two mint choc chip ice creams.

"There was an ice cream truck," he explained. "Would you like one?"

The ice cream was dripping down Blaine's hands, and his eyes were bright with happiness.

Kurt melted. His boyfriend was adorable. He accepted one of the cones, and started licking at the melting dessert. He watched Blaine over the top of his cone.

"Thank you. And please forget everything I said before. This is the _best_ first date I've ever been on."

Blaine smiled. "Kurt..."

"I should also point out that this is the only first date I've ever been on."

The moment lasted for another second before Blaine snorted, and Kurt laughed along too. Blaine was just so easy to get on with. He'd never met anyone quite like him.

Blaine took another bite of his ice cream, missing his mouth just slightly.

Kurt laughed. "You've got some..." He motioned to Blaine's face.

"Oh." Blaine tried to reach it with his tongue, but he couldn't quite reach. "Could you get it for me?"

Kurt sat up, reaching forwards with the pad of his thumb. Then he paused. He dropped his hand. "Sure." He leant forwards and kissed Blaine softly. His eyes closed. "Has that got it?" he whispered.

"You'd better try again," Blaine replied, just as softly. "Just to make sure."


	5. Blue

There is something to be said about the way water ripples on a swimming pool, even when nobody is swimming in it. It is mesmerising. A gentle vibration on the surface to remind the viewer of the energy felt when in the water. At least, that's what Kurt thought when he looked at the pool of the villa they'd rented, from his viewpoint lying on a sun bed slathered in sun cream. He wanted to slowly immerse himself. On the other hand, he was rather fond of laying just where he was, watching and thinking.

Blaine, on the other hand, had fallen asleep. The sunshine always made him drowsy, and it was something that his husband teased him about endlessly. The moment heat and sun arrived, he was out like a light, snoozing softly in the peace of the afternoon. The sky above was blue, and everything about the place whispered calm; screaming would have been too harsh.

It had been years since they'd taken a holiday. Kurt had been working himself to exhaustion, and Blaine had forgotten what it was like to not have a song stuck in his head. They'd been encouraged to take a break, and for once Kurt accepted the lifting of responsibilities in favour of two blissful weeks by the sea. He had thought he'd be constantly worrying about home, but something about the villa and the town made him forget all of it and just... relax.

Finally, Kurt gave in to the urge to go swimming. He sat up and stretched briefly before removing his sunglasses. He set them down next to his now empty glass which had ten minutes ago held homemade lemonade. Blaine's remained untouched, though the ice cubes had long since melted. Kurt stood and padded slowly over to the edge of the pool. He sat down and dangled his legs in the cool water. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air which even _smelt_ of relaxation. He pushed himself in, shivering only momentarily, before welcoming the coolness and starting to swim.

On his sun bed, Blaine began to wake up. Slowly, he opened his eyes to the blue sky, the blue pool, the blue sea in the distance. As Kurt turned in his lap of the swimming pool, Blaine saw the most beautiful shade of blue: the eyes he'd fallen in love with so many years ago.


	6. Indigo

"Well maybe if you stopped nagging me all the time, I would do more! Or maybe if I had the _time_ to, Kurt. You know, I do actually work. And right now the kids are driving me potty and most of the time I don't know if I'm coming or going and sometimes, just _sometimes_, I'd like to come home and not have to do anything. Is that too much to ask? Without you calling me lazy the whole time, or sighing and saying we'll order a takeout when you so clearly don't want a take out. It'd be nice if you actually acted like you care every once in a while!"

"Blaine..."

"Don't. Just back off. I'm not even hungry anyway." I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room. I would slam the bedroom door behind me, but my head is pounding. Great, now I have a migraine. I don't turn the lights on; I just close the curtains and crawl into bed. Why does it have to be like this? Why does it always have to be like this?

My students' grades are slipping. Yes, a few remain high, but the majority have been going steadily downhill for the past three months. The head has even pulled me into his office a couple of times to talk to me about it. Hey, 'talk'. That's a laugh, isn't it. Lecture, more like. And when I get home, wanting to talk to my husband about it, he says _he_ is exhausted after his day. And what does he do? Take photos of some poxy models. That's all. He doesn't have any noisy school kids to stress about.

And I am stressing about them. I mean, are they just losing interest? Do I need to make my classes more, I don't know, enthralling? Or is it just that the post-Christmas slump is lasting a lot longer than it usually does? If they don't pull their fingers out soon, or if I don't make my lessons more interesting, then they're going to fail their exams and I'm going to be out of a job. And that'll give Kurt even more reason to be pissed at me.

What is his problem, anyway? We used to share all the jobs around the house. We didn't have feminine and masculine roles because, frankly, that's sexist. And neither one of us is 'the woman'. But recently when I've said I'm tired, he's brought up the cooking, or the loading the dishwasher. All I want is one night of peace. But all we ever do now is fight.

Everything is always so loud. It's like there's a megaphone next to my ear, and somebody only has to whisper to make my head ache. I want everyone to be quiet, and leave me alone. Why can't they leave me alone?

Because he loves me.

My head pounds. Even the darkness isn't helping my migraine. Because Kurt loves me and I've been a real dick to him. Sure, I work all day. But so does he. He is assistant to the editor of Vogue. He practically runs her life. He organises shoots, takes the photos, edits them, organises them. He goes to all the meetings with clients and has to smile and make small talk. He has to make reservations at restaurants and sweet talk his way in to places which are always booked up. He works all day, and even on days off and holidays he gets called in to do an extra shift, or is on the phone to his boss discussing a last minute change of plan. He does a lot. And I never cut him any slack.

And those jobs that we agreed to share? Well, it's always me who doesn't do them. He does. He has to. So after his day at work, he comes home to cook, to clean, to take the bins out. He takes DVDs back to the rental store and buys the weekly shop. He does everything, really.

Oh god, I've been terrible. I have been really, really horrible. And no matter how stressed I _was_ feeling, it's now ten times worse. The banging in my head can't compare to the ache in my heart, or the lump of regret in my throat. I have made a terrible, horrible mistake.

Slowly, I sit up. My cheeks feel sticky, but I can't remember crying. I slide to the edge of the bed and stand up. Softly, I make my way to the bedroom door and open it. I shuffle outside.

"Kurt?" I call. There is no reply. "Kurt?" I walk into the living room, and see him sitting in his jacket, wearing shoes. His car keys are in his hand. "Kurt, I need to-"

"Put your shoes on, and follow me out," he says as he stands up and leaves the room. "And you might want to put something warmer on."

And then he's gone. This time, I can feel the tears spill from my eyes. What have I done? Why couldn't I have noticed this quicker? The front door closes. I need to follow him.

I grab a coat and slide it on, and stick my feet in a pair of shoes. I don't stop to check if they're mine or his; we're pretty much the same size anyway. I only remember after I have closed the door behind me that I don't have my phone with me, or my set of keys. If this is it, for us, then I'm stuck out here. I hope it's not it.

I walk down the steps and see him. He's sitting in the driver's seat of the car. His head is bowed. It looks like he's crying. I walk over to the passenger door and it feels like hundreds of knives are piercing my feet at every step. I open the door, and get in.

"Kurt, I-"

He presses play on the CD player, and now I realise that that's what he was doing with his head bowed. The song starts playing, and I recognise it instantly as Blackbird. I know that he's put our CD in. It's the mix I made him for our last anniversary. He does his seat belt up just as his voice fills the car. I listen for a few seconds before realising that I should do the same.

The sky above is as dark as his indigo jeans. My favourite pair.

We drive for about ten minutes. Neither of us says a word. I have no idea where we are anymore because I've been too busy watching him and not the road. I try to read his expression, but I see nothing. I feel the guilt clinging at my throat. It is suffocating me, and songs on our CD like Perfect do not help matters. My eyes sting with tears that I'm too proud to shed in front of him.

And then we pull over. I look outside the car. Everything is dark. There are no headlights anywhere near, and the streetlights have long since fizzled out. Oh god, he's taken me here to murder me. I shake my head. Now I'm just being stupid.

He turns the CD off, and then, for the first time, he turns to look at me.

"I get that you're stressed," he starts. "I get that sometimes, when you get home, you just need to lie down, or forget about work, or order in because you've used all your energy up teaching and can't cook. I get that, I really do." He reaches for my hands. They're shaking. "But I have needs too. Sometimes I want to do just the same as you, and some nights neither of us can be bothered. And you know what? That's okay."

"Kurt," I interrupt, but he gets in ahead of me.

"Please, let me finish?" He sighs. "I love you. Even though you can be so infuriating some of the time. I can't help but love you. Some of the time, well, a lot of the time, I feel as if we've lost who we are. We have become our jobs, and it's all we can eat or think or sleep. And so just for tonight, I want to forget that that part of our lives even exists. I want to be us again, Blaine. Just for one night." He smiles at me then, and he looks so young and afraid. He squeezes my hands, then drops them into my lap. He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, closing the door behind him. I copy his movements, and then we're both standing in front of the car.

"I've missed you," I say. "And I'm so sorry. For everything."

He shakes his head with a smile. "I didn't bring you here to get you to apologise."

"You didn't?"

He shakes his head again and points up. I gasp. There, above our heads, a million pricks of light make patterns in the indigo coloured sky. "We often forget they're there. Because of all the lights around us. But they _are_ there." He sits on the bonnet of his car. "Join me?" he asks.

And so I sit, and he lifts my arm around his shoulders, and we watch the stars. Slowly, my migraine begins to ebb away, and I can feel the stress leave my body along with it. Everything is quiet and peaceful, like we're the only ones alive in our little patch of world. I hug him closer to me and kiss his cheek.

"I love you," I whisper.

"I love you too," he whispers in reply.


	7. Violet

The tablecloths were white. On each table, place cards were written in silver pen. Violet flowers acted as the centrepiece, adding splashcolour to the blank canvas.

"Are you sure everything is in the right place? There's not meant to be a balloon pillar or something over there, is there?"

"No, Kurt thinks those are tacky. But the seating-"

"What? I had one for my birthday! Why didn't he tell me?"

"I don't know, Mercedes? Maybe he just didn't want to offend you. So, that's Burt and Carole over there, and-"

"Quinn, everything is perfect. Stop fussing. They'll be here soon, anyway."

"I know. I just want everything to look right. This is Kurt and Blaine. They deserve perfect."

"Q, stop worrying. Oh, they're here."

A crowd of people spilled into the room, and at the centre of that crowd stood Kurt and Blaine. People were still talking to them, congratulating them, saying how much they'd enjoyed the ceremony. They were bright and smiling and happy, and their hands had remained locked together since they'd been made husbands. The once-peaceful room became filled with noise, but the white softened everything out. It was calm and happiness objectified.

While another relative pulled on Kurt's arm and another friend tried to speak in Blaine's ear, they looked at each other. They didn't need words, but they used them anyway.

"I love you," Kurt whispered.

"I love you too, husband," Blaine replied, feeling the word settle around his head like a halo.

Kurt caught the arms of Quinn and Mercedes as they passed and thanked them for looking after the decoration at the reception. Blaine joined in with his thanks for them making such wonderful groomswomen.

The tablecloths were white. On their table, place cards were written in silver pen, saying 'Kurt Hummel-Anderson' and 'Blaine Hummel-Anderson' respectively. Violet flowers acted as the centrepiece, and Kurt took one of the blooms to tuck in Blaine's buttonhole. They exchanged a short kiss, then blushed as applause broke out. They were married. This was the start of their life.


End file.
